


Craft

by jesseberyll



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Cock Bondage, F/M, Kissing, Lightforged Draenei - Freeform, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, facesitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24369037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseberyll/pseuds/jesseberyll
Summary: Mathias Shaw has some time off from work and seeks well-deserved comfort with a wonderful, willing woman.
Relationships: Mathias Shaw/Elya
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Craft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buntheridon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buntheridon/gifts).



**Craft**

It is rare that he finds himself with the commodity simple folk call 'free time’. Mathias Shaw, after all, is a busy man, even if he doesn't exist in the eyes of 99% of Stormwind's population. Details classified.

Free time. Reports all sorted, roles all doled out, no mission to immediately leave on, and he's all prepared for the next one. An entire afternoon where he can take a deep breath and just enjoy life as it is.

He is a workaholic, his men at SI:7 claim, and they aren't necessarily wrong, but Mathias is also practical, unlike his young, passion-driven King, when it comes to personal health. He knows that from time to time he needs to stop, lean back, and recuperate both physically and mentally. His spirited youth is well behind him as the lines marking his face indicate; he cannot risk his performance out in the field by becoming fatigued or slumping into a burnout.

Even he requires rest at times - he hopes Valeera will eventually convince King Anduin of this notion as well - and he cherishes every lazy afternoon, rare as they are.

As usual, he spends it walking the streets of the beautiful city he's been working to protect. He stops by a bakery to buy a small paper bag of cheese scones. He’s civil with the shopkeep, making small talk on the weather, but he always keeps an eye open for his surroundings, a possible ambush, suspicious dealings. Through his line of work he’s quickly learned ‘anything can happen’ is not merely a fancy phrase. 

Dressed in the simplest boots, trousers and a clean shirt, he looks as ordinary as the next man. A good spy does not _look_ like one, after all. He munches on a scone while he walks, taking in the atmosphere of comfortable city life, the bustling of people, the colours, scents and sounds of welcoming shops, the shade and shape of blossoming trees… with the side-effect of analyzing it all, of course. Unwinding is a process, and not always entirely successful.

His tour of the town takes him to the outskirts, all the way to the Embassy. He passes by the building, inconspicuous, easily missed among the troops and prominent people gathering outside. He walks behind the gathering of small tents to the left of the Embassy, headed for the great tree just left of the small, open forge. He stops there, back against the trunk, taking stock: outside there’s Artificer Farud and Statiks Quikfuse discussing engineering, and to the right of the lamppost there’s a single guard; Ameli Hardis if the rosters Mathias gets daily are correct.

Beneath the roof of the forge the occupants are blocked from view by the equipment. Mathias listens to the sharp clangs, the hiss of tempering, the occasional louder exchange between the two co-workers. It’s a fairly new habit of his to detour for a glance or a listen, a snippet of something strangely enticing. There’s a strong odor wafting in the air: coal and oil and sweat and metal. It’s pleasant, the scent of good work being done. But that’s not why he comes around whenever he gets the chance.

“Druben! Bring me that slab of Storm Silver!”

Mathias is warmed at hearing the voice, the accent. Elya, as he has learned from an unofficial screening (standard protocol; a mandatory process for all individuals upon entering the city, less fancy than it sounds: his men watch them, do some digging, and report back to him), is a lightforged draenei, family presumed lost in the first invasion of Argus. She has previously supported the Army of the Light as a smith, and has settled in Stormwind three months ago. She and the dwarf Druben Stoutarm (happily married and completely faithful to his wife Fara, which is information relevant to Mathias’ interests) have co-founded the small forge by the Embassy to supply the incoming troops and train new blacksmiths and miners. Judging by the conversations he’s briefly eavesdropped on though, Elya is the one in charge.

In his snatched moments of passing by, he’s caught only glimpses of her before as she whirled about the forge, working the fumes, hammering metal: soot-stained, shoulder-length white hair, blazing golden eyes, beautiful horns curving up and away from her scalp, a rune of Light shimmering beneath her tousled fringes. Lovely, if he may say so himself.

He’s aware he’s a bit of a stalker, but in all honesty it’s a professional hazard.

It’s the first time since Elya has piqued his curiosity, however, that he has an entire free afternoon to spend watching her. He contemplates his options as he finishes his scones, considering possible courses of action, plausible lines of conversation, the pros and cons of approaching her, maybe flirting with her, and the improbable hope of taking her out for the best form of relaxation. It’s been far too long since anything of more substance than the occasional quick relief with a working girl, and he feels a hopeful tingle in his loins at the idea, but he’s far too disciplined to actually get hard at a simple thought.

He crumples the wax paper bag and tucks the small ball into a pocket just as Elya steps out of the forge, stretching, in perfect full view, and he’s not one to pass up opportunities. He stares without shame at the hourglass figure: wide hips, slim waist, and he can tell, even from a distance, that her muscled shoulders and arms would put some men to shame.

It’s a bit of a weak spot, though he cannot afford to admit to it.

Finished with stretching, she turns to walk over to Hardis, but stops mid-step, eyes straight on Mathias, unblinking. Alert. It’s not surprising, with the state of current affairs.

He cracks a lopsided smile, as neutral as he can possibly seem, and waves at her, aiming for harmless, shy. A simple, honest-looking middle-aged man caught red-handed daydreaming about a beautiful draenei woman, nothing extraordinary. She cocks an eyebrow, mildly curious, but heads on to speak with the guard by the lamp post. They’re too far away to hear, and Mathias reminds himself to keep his distance, reasoning he can still gather some information from their body language.

They’re amicable, but not entirely friendly. There’s some distrust in Ameli, despite her dutiful nodding. Elya lifts a hand to touch her arm, refrains in the last moment, then turns away. Heads for the forge, stops, locks gazes with Mathias, and begins to walk over, a determined set to her gorgeous shoulders.

Mathias pushes himself away from the tree, waits for her. She stops a stride away, cautious, a small furrow between her brows, soot on her cheek, ash in her hair. Perhaps wondering if she ought to immediately send him on his way. Mathias chances a polite nod, and stays put, respecting the distance she wishes to put between them.

“Good sir, can I help?” She asks, gazing at him. She’s short for a draenei woman; their eyes are level.

Mathias shakes his head, apologetic. “I didn’t mean to draw you away from your work. I’m just enjoying the shade.” He nods up at the crown of the tree.

Elya doesn’t follow the gesture, her gleaming eyes fixed on him. She’s dubious, but it seems she enjoys what she sees. A bit of pride twinges through Mathias at the notion. As best he can, he takes care of himself when able. He’s pleased to know the effort is appreciated.

“...and the view?” She dares. Mathias suppresses a hopeful shiver.

“I’m sure no one could fault me,” he responds, quirking that half-there smile that hints at a promise of good-natured mischief. It steals a decade or so from his looks, bringing a warmer light to his keen green eyes. Elya’s lips curve as well, a small triumph.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m certainly perplexed.” She shakes ash from her hair, as if to punctuate her sentence, watching him for reactions. He knows what she wants from him, and frankly, the pleasure is all his.

He doesn’t reply, but he makes sure to stare hard and long, drinking her in, and it takes little conscious effort. He would hardly be able to look anywhere else. Light, it’s been long, and she’s just perfect.

“...seems the good sir likes it dirty,” Elya teases, and Mathias feels the suggestive words all the way to his groin. She’s willing, at least to flirt, and as always in a confrontation, he’s ready with a riposte.

“You don’t know _how_ dirty.” His gaze is impish, and her eyebrows twitch in surprise, eyes flicking to his mouth, then back up. His inviting gaze answers her questions. He’s not a rogue for show - he has tricks up his sleeve, a surprise around every corner, and he does enjoy playing his cards one by one, to great effect.

There’s a spark between them, the air thickening with the hesitant, warm shimmer of attraction, and Elya shifts closer, her voice lowering as she replies, “Oh? Should that intimidate me?”

“No. It’s not a boast, it’s an invitation,” Mathias clarifies, a throb of hot satisfaction rushing through him when he sees her lashes drop, her luscious lips parting softly, seduced. “If you’re so inclined…”

He leaves the suggestion dangling and she snatches it almost immediately, with a greed that leaves him hot with impatience. “I’d rather think I am. Only, I still have work to do and I do not know the good sir’s name.”

“Mathias.” Anything more and he’s putting her in danger.

“Elya.” Needless, but she wouldn’t know. It’s best to keep some pretenses up. “Find me in the Gilded Rose after sundown.”

Won’t divulge her address, smart woman.

Mathias smiles. “I will.”

It’s as simple as that, sometimes (it hasn’t been like that for six whole years, Mathias muses, it was high time luck was on his side for once). She leaves, with a spring to her step that’s just as arousing as it is endearing to watch.

He walks away too, eyes on the people but not memorizing exchanged words, gestures, glances for once. He’s momentarily lost in fantasies about the night that might be in store… if his luck continues to hold out for another few hours.

  
  


Arriving to the Gilded Rose, it appears he doesn’t need to rely on luck whatsoever: Elya is standing by the bar, changed out of her work clothes, freshly bathed, if the scent of honey soap is any indication. She’s modestly dressed in dark trousers and a simple dusky purple vest that shows off her arms. Mathias feasts his eyes for a desperate moment, enchanted by the way her muscles bunch and flex when she lifts the delicate wine glass to her lips and takes a sip. The contrast is killing him.

“Good evening,” he greets her as he sidles up to the bar, deftly coming between her and another gentleman, no doubt deliberating the dangers of trying something with a woman whose biceps could rival his own. _Amateur_ , Mathias thinks in passing, a speck of arrogance blemishing his practical demeanor for that possessive moment.

As always, the name and occupation of the man flash briefly in his mind, but Elya turns towards him, and smiles. Looks pleased to see him. His focus is quickly anchored in her enthusiasm. “Good evening.” She pushes a glass of wine towards him. Decisive. She’s growing more attractive by the minute. “A little something to wet your tongue?”

The response comes immediately, sharpened on clever wit, and he knows from her appreciative glances that he may dare.

“I’d rather wet it elsewhere, but thank you. I’ll take it, for courage.” He picks up the glass.

Elya laughs, clinking hers against his, sparkles in her golden eyes. Her cheeks are pleasantly rosy, she’s in high spirits. “As if you need it.”

“I might,” he goes on, pleased to see her delight in his chatter. “I’m sure you could get me nervous if you put your mind to it.”

She watches while he sips his wine, and he makes a show of licking his lips. “I have ideas, I’ll admit. Seeing the way you look at me makes me _think_.”

“Does it?” Mathias murmurs, pushing the wine aside. It feels superfluous. The electric air around them is far more intoxicating. “Why? Is there something special about it? I can’t be the first man who finds you gorgeous.”

“As I’m sure I’m not the first woman you approach.” Elya finishes the last of her wine, eyes caressing him from head to toe as she takes a long, delicious look. He feels the juvenile need to square his shoulders and dip his jaw and resists. She clearly enjoys the natural air he emanates. “But you are the first man who gives off a different… air.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming, and he leans in, closer. “Do I flummox you?”

Elya pauses, deliberates, then lifts her hand and grips his chin, fingers brushing through his carefully groomed goatee. The first touch between them, and Mathias bites back a glorious, _exactly what I wanted_ groan. He holds her gaze, breathing just a little louder.

“You’re outrageous on purpose,” she murmurs, thoughtful. “To make me react a certain way, I think… and that excites me.”

He glances down, obvious. “If only you’d show me exactly how excited you are…”

She laughs, releases his jaw and instead grabs his hand. Rough with callouses, tough, firm, everything he needs. “Come along, _Mathias_.” She breathes his name, makes it personal. Oh, it’s going to hurt, walking away from this. “I have a room reserved.”

They hurry upstairs, her hooves loud, his steps soundless out of old habit. She fumbles the lock at first, cursing under her breath in draenei. He cringes a bit inwardly in professional dismay but does not step in. She gets it right the second time and they crowd into the small room. She locks the door again and tosses the key on the nightstand then turns to him and just breathes for a moment. Her chest is heaving with want. He’s completely hard for the thought of how bad he arouses her.

He waits with his back to the door and sure enough she comes to him, putting her hands on his chest, sliding them up to his neck. She leans close, tastes the air he exhales, and he watches as she comes to terms with his position, with the dynamics he’s looking for. If the subtle nuances of her face are an indication, she’s getting drenched coming up with ideas. Light, he loves the way women look when they understand _they’re allowed_.

“You know…” She speaks against his mouth, and it takes everything not to open it and invite her more obscenely. “...men usually want a woman like me to feel stronger after overpowering her.”

He smiles, not the first time he’s heard the argument, and it never ceases to amuse him. “...those sorry, self-doubting little boys…” He murmurs, lifting both hands beside his head, laying them against the door. Her breath audibly hitches, and it sends a throb of heat through his cock. “I could yawn at that line of thought.”

“...oh, you know exactly how arousing you are, don’t you?” She whispers, her hands going to his wrists, finding a good grip, shoulders bunching as she pins him. He groans at the sight, green eyes dark, pupils wide, lashes half-mast. He tugs once, she tightens her grasp and pushes close, mouth on his, kissing his parting lips.

She tastes like wine and lust, their tongues meeting soft and slick, and Mathias sighs, tension falling from him in droves. The rigidity, the discipline, the precision he must maintain, for this rare treat of a night nothing but the past’s and future’s burdens. The now is Elya, her wet mouth and hungry kisses, the press of her breasts against his chest, the rough grip of her hands around his bare wrists.

She’s the one to pull away first, and they’re both left breathing hard against each other’s lips. Their eyes meet for a searing moment then they kiss again, hot and urgent, impatience humming through their skin. Elya’s tongue teases his own, she bites him softly and he moans for her, all dignity shedded like needless deadweight. He can be someone entirely different now - he can pass control over to someone else, and the thought is absolutely liberating.

Her hands trail down from his wrists - the lack of her grip is a small disappointment - and set to unlacing his shirt, loosening the neckline. She draws back, watches as she claws the exposed patch of skin and the coarse red hairs curling there, curious. It’s good to know he can still catch a beautiful woman’s eye.

Quickly, she grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it from his trousers, up and over his head, tossing the garment aside. He sees surprise blossom on her features as she runs her fingertips along a faded scar stretching across his left pectoral. Dozens of others litter his torso, most of them very old, a couple fresh ones here and there. She looks him over, wordless. For a long, weighted minute only their breathing is audible.

“I’m never going to see you again after this, am I?” Elya asks. The lack of accusation in her tone eases all tension in the teetering moment.

“No. Possibly not,” Mathias answers, because she deserves his honesty. He steels himself against the disappointment of having to walk away without anything happening, holding her bright golden gaze.

She considers again, fingers ghosting across his ribs, tracing more scars on his abs, following the thick dark red treasure trail all the way to the buckle of his belt.

“...all the better,” she emerges, lips pulling into a decisive smirk that throbs through Mathias like a warm caress to his cock. “That means I can do whatever I want without repercussions.”

He exhales, hips tense as he fights against the urge to buck. “I hoped you’d see it that way.”

“I do,” she murmurs, leaning in to bite at his mouth, tugging his lower lip until it stings. “And I think I understand a little better. It’s a work hazard that you’re a bit of a masochist, hmm?”

He tries to kiss her, but she leans out of reach, playing. He grabs her waist to yank her close, and she chuckles, damn her, leaning past him to bite into his ear. Goosebumps rise on his skin and his hands trail down to grip her toned, curvy ass, holding on. She nibbles, licks, hums, leaves him melting for more. It’s wonderful. He cannot wait to come undone.

She takes her time exploring him, kissing and biting and sucking his skin, working from ear to ear with small kisses to his lips, his jaw, leaving scattered red marks on his throat. Idly, he strokes her tush, minding her tail - he knows it’s a big no to most draenei - and he closes his eyes, head tilted back, letting her have her fill of him. His skin feels hot under her lips, he sees the bruises in his mind’s vision and they make him twitch and throb with want. Her teeth are gentle, then harsh, teasing with the fluctuating intensity, patternless to leave him guessing what comes next. And he guesses, blind and aimless, because mindgames are what he does best, and letting himself purposely fall prey to it like a jolly fool is liberating in the way taking off armor is.

Her fingers comb through the dark red chest hair between his pectorals, tugging faintly. He feels her smile against his skin. With a low sigh, he abandons all expectations, lets himself drift with her currents, allows for her to surprise him with whatever she thinks of next. There’s no need to be three steps ahead now, not even one. She’ll pull him, and he’ll follow, only here eager to be used.

Her fingers fan out on his chest and he cracks his eyes open just as she leans in to kiss him again. He smiles, a smaller, softer one that lacks all underlying purpose, and remains hidden between their tongues softly meeting. Ghosting across his sides, her fingertips dance towards the waistline of his trousers. He angles himself, leaning more of his weight against the door, lips dragging away from hers as he’s lowered to seem shorter. A little pretense goes a long way, he knows. There’s fire in her golden eyes when she looks him over like he’s a piece of delicious snack to enjoy. Hungry for her lustful stare, he opens his legs without being prompted. The way she mouths a voiceless plea to the Light for patience sets his skin ablaze. It’s entirely maddening how much she desires him. It dizzies him, brings out a long-suppressed, depraved need to lay it all bare, to strip naked and let her gobble him up with those wandering eyes.

“Come here,” she whispers, voice grated harsh on want, and she grabs him by the waistline of his trousers and pulls. He moves, following the tug as easy as ducking under a well-telegraphed swing of a sword. The grace comes naturally from decades of rigorous training. He grunts when she snatches another kiss from his mouth then turns and shoves him by his shoulders.

He topples only for show, plopping on his backside on the carefully made, clean-smelling bed. Leaning back on his elbows, he waits, watching as she steps closer, kneels between his parted legs and curls down to kiss him, her hands on his cheeks, holding him still. He purrs, deliberate, and lets her devour his mouth, glad that she’s keen on liplocks - such a dear, underrated intimate gesture, something he often misses. It’s a long-standing promise to himself that if he ever retires and gets married, he’d be kissing his wife until she’s forced to bodily restrain him.

Elya pulls away, spit making her plush lips shine. She combs her fingers through his hair slowly, again and again until his eyes close and he brims with aching gratitude. If it’s the work of the scars she’s seen, he’s glad for the first time that he’s suffered them. He sighs when she breathes a kiss to his temple, lashes fluttering. His arousal pulses slowly, his loins hot.

“...I want to see all of you…” She murmurs into his ear and he cants his head against her lips on instinct. She bites him and licks, another sweet thrill for him, then moves away and gets down before him, pulling off his boots.

He opens his eyes to watch and she glances up to meet his gaze, firm. She is doing it as a gesture of control - undresses him at her own leisure - not as an act of submission. The difference is subtle, but it is there in the way she carries herself. For a hopeless, beautiful moment, he falls, hard.

Boots and socks off, she moves to his belt and unbuckles it, fingers brushing the outline of his cock, teasing, playful. He exhales and lifts his hips just a bit, his length straining against the lacing. Elya stands and steps away and he groans, amused at his own schoolboy mistake. He drops down on his back entirely, staring at the ceiling, vision blurry with need. Should have known he was expected to behave.

“Something you want, Mathias?” She asks.

A hot rush of pleasure and want throbs through him at the question, somehow expected and yet not. She continues to pleasantly surprise him. He swallows, does not move his gaze.

“Yes,” he whispers. He could say more, but this is a mindgame, too - give only as much as you are asked, make the exchange a maddening, arching ramp.

“What is it? What do you want?” She goes on, falling into the rhythm naturally. She kneels beside him on the bed, leans over him to see his face, her lovely white hair falling forward to shadow her face. Light skips bright yellow on the jewels adorning the locks. “Tell me.”

He meets her golden gaze, feels himself near the first steep slope and he pushes on. “Touch me.”

She caresses his jawline, fingers through his goatee again. “Where? How?”

 _Everywhere, any way you want_ , is the first, feverish thought in him, but it is not the answer fit for the game they’re playing. He needs to be specific, as direct and obscene as he can muster. His mouth grows dry as he works through the restraints of societal expectations with practiced ease.

“...my cock.” It comes out quick, a little awkward, and he feels blood rise to his face, then race down to his groin just as fast. It’s dirty. He feels like a brat caught naughty under the bedsheets, he loves it. “I need you to touch it… please.”

“Good.” She bends down to kiss him again, a reward. It’s perfect. “I like how honest you are…”

She unknots the lacing of his trousers and pulls them down to his knees, undergarments following. His length stands at attention, curving up against his lower stomach and twitching, balls taut, nestled in a thick mess of dark red curls.

“But…” She pinches the excess of foreskin at the head between two fingers. Mathias shivers, glancing down, breathing hitching softly in wild anticipation. Hopeful heat courses through him, aching, needy. Light, whatever she is planning he knows it will be wonderful.

“You did not answer both questions just yet.”

She pulls, stretching the foreskin away from his cock, dragging it taut. He lifts himself to his elbows to see better, mouth hanging open, his breathing picking up pace. Elya wrenches the foreskin, twists it, tugs and pinches, and he moans, _moans,_ hips shaking with the strain of keeping still. He will not push and ruin this, he suffers her small cruelties, the sweet pain of it, the amazing care she puts into making sure she doesn’t overdo it. He can see how she studies his face, how she focuses, watches for his reactions. It’s far more than he could have asked for, and in return he censors nothing. He groans, head tossed back and to the side, eyes half mast and locked with hers, body flushed with amazing heat. Light, it feels so _good_. He’s been longing for this.

“Elya…” He breathes her name and she comes to kiss him, fingers clenching down hard on the head of his cock, still covered in foreskin. He grunts, hisses faintly, but works to kiss back, hands curled into the sheets to anchor himself.

He wants to put his hands in her hair, pull her down and tell her he wants her to _ruin_ him, but he shoves the selfish need aside and leaves all control with her. It’s even better that way.

“Mathias, you’re so arousing…” She whispers when she pulls away, hand wrapping firm around his cock. She drags it down, pulling his foreskin, a mess of precum spilling from the slit smearing her fingers as the crown is exposed. “I have an idea for your sweet cock… do you want it? Do you want me to keep playing with it?”

A surprise… _sweet cock_ … playing… Mathias’ mind is full of her words, her tone, her wonderful confident smirk as she leans back to wait for his answer. He nods, only groaning at first because her hand is still groping his shaft, kneading the length like she was trying to mold it. Painful, hot, searing with bliss.

“Answer me, before I leave you here,” she threatens, and he feels his pulse jump despite being perfectly aware she’d leave herself hanging too.

“Yes!” He gasps, chest heaving. “Yes, Light, yes, whatever you want… keep touching me, do anything… I’ll take it…”

She raises an eyebrow with near-imperial precision and he feels himself melt.

“Please…” He breathes. It feels unbelievably good to say it.

Elya doesn’t respond, merely reaches up to the lacing of her shirt with both hands. As she begins tugging the dark purple ribbon from the holes, goosebumps rise all over Mathias’ arms and back. He watches with unveiled greed as her shirt falls open further, allowing a better view of her collarbones, that mouth-watering cleavage.

Quickly, she moves between his legs, sitting back on her haunches as she folds the ribbon in two and makes a loop at the end. She pulls the loop over the head of his cock, tugging it down all the way to the base where she adjusts and arranges it so the coarse hairs aren’t caught when she pulls it tight. Her gaze flicks up to his face as she tugs again, and again, stopping only, when his mouth twists faintly in discomfort.

Her ministrations make him throb and twitch and leak more precum. She ignores his need and focuses on the task, taking the two ends of the ribbon into her two hands, beginning to criss-cross them along his shaft. The diamond-pattern is somewhat crooked but he doesn’t mind - can tell it’s her first try and that thought alone makes up for the lack of aesthetics. Her fingers tremble, though it’s barely noticeable. It’s nerve-wracking, being in control, trying to be perfect, to make everything go smoothly, to act like you know what you are doing, Mathias understands more than he can express. He tries to accommodate her, being responsive, removing his own censors to show he appreciates her efforts.

“Oh, Light…” He murmurs, shivering when she ties off her handiwork, the knot digging into his sensitive flesh, the ribbon biting at his cock, the sense of confinement only making the pulse and ache of arousal more insistent. No, not an expert, but she is creative and unafraid to experiment, true to her craftsmanship.

“Pretty,” Elya hums, circling the taut skin around the slit at the tip of his cock with teasing precision. He exhales heavily and enjoys the tingling, the raving desire for more, much more, but he does not demand. It’s a game, and he’ll play nice until he has restraint. “Purple looks good on you, Mathias.”

Her praise is a tender mockery that means no harm and he chuckles for it, watching her through his dark brown lashes. He wants to lift his hips into her hand as she caresses his tied-up cock, wants to press into her palm and ask her for a firmer touch, but he refrains. Sometimes, he’s learned from his occupation, one needs to simply wait and see.

She grips the hem of her vest and pulls it up, over her head, mindful of her horns. The loss of her fingers would be painful, if he weren’t distracted by the sight of her bare breasts falling free of the garments, nipples immediately pinching taut, pale bluish grey areola prickling. She is beautiful half naked, hair a bit tousled, skin fair like alabaster, her golden tattoos gleaming in the scarce candlelight. A strange, enticing cross between ethereal and honest flesh and blood. _A woman_ , Mathias muses, enchanted.

He throbs when she gets up and undoes her belt, pushing down her trousers and undergarments all at once. No shame, no hesitation. White hair nestles between her toned thighs, trimmed neatly short. Oh, she’s exquisite.

“I’m happy to see the good sir likes the show,” she teases, flirty, smoothing her hair. The gesture is just this side of self-conscious and Mathias hurries gladly to assure her.

“I love it,” he says, quite simple, earnest. He’s no longer breathless, but his voice is still thick with arousal. He lets his bound cock twitch a bit for her viewing pleasure and he smiles when he draws her gaze with the small motion. “You’re gorgeous, Elya. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“No,” she accepts the flirt with delight, golden eyes dancing. She comes closer, climbing the bed, the mattress creaking under her as she carefully, deliberately, straddles his face. The end of her jeweled tail comes to rest on top of his head and it tickles his scalp as he gazes up, starving, at the beautiful wet pussy hovering above him. He can smell her juices, the feminine musk of her, and he aches to taste her, cock twitching on its own now with anticipation. “It’s still lovely to hear it. I’ll keep your mouth busy though, if you don’t mind. We’ll have to do with you being speechless.”

 _Yes_ , he thinks, feverish with hunger for her coquettish talk, for the tantalizing scent hovering just out of reach above him, _yes, please._

Then she sinks her hips all the way down, covering his face, grinding her wet folds against his open lips and waiting tongue, and he groans, eyes squeezing shut, reveling in the moment. She’s hot and slippery against his mouth, tasting faintly salty, that inexplicable woman’s flavor that differs from person to person and is still somehow universal. He loves it, instantly. He laps, slathers, sucks and moans, his hands grabbing her thighs to drag her down harder, more.

He needs this, the glorious abandon when all reason seems to cease and the entire world shrinks to the single, blind notion that he wants Elya to _come_.

She stiffens above him, thighs flexing in his grip, hips trembling. Her head tossed back, she moans and sighs, riding his tongue, her hands coming up to her breasts for a desperate squeeze before falling onto his restrained cock again.

He feels her grab his balls and massage them and he shudders, bucking now, the time for playing by the rules gone. She doesn’t chastise anymore - she has no mind for it either. Both of them are of a single mind, wanting only to make the other feel good, and to enjoy themselves too.

She strokes him, the criss-cross binding making the familiar motions blissfully more painful than they should be. His foreskin pinches, the head and base feel constricted, like there’s a lovely, cruel dam on his orgasm, keeping him at bay while he struggles gasping to get there.

A deep, tortured groan is wrenched from him, her name lost somewhere in the sound, when she bends down and licks the weeping slit, tongue probing inside. It won’t fit, of course it won’t, but she presses anyways and it hurts, oh it hurts so good. He shudders, hissing, latching onto her clit to reciprocate, sucking the sweet jewel, feeling her shake on top of him. He wants to reach down and keep her there, let her know he loves her little cruelties, but all he manages is a frantic, jagged scratch to the small of her back. Then he grabs her firm buttocks again and licks deep inside her, drinking more of her taste.

Her hole opens up for his tongue and she moans for it, pressing down, smothering him, grinding herself on the soft and coarse pleasure of his mouth and moustache. She keeps licking the tip of his cock, slick under her tongue, leaking precum. She tongues the slit and purrs when he trembles beneath her.

Softly, she toys with the pretty knot just beneath the crown, and he exhales, begging.

“Elya…” His lips quiver against her pussy. He breathes, and can only breathe her, can only taste her. “...Elya, please…”

He throbs when she pauses to listen, and licks into her again, swirling his tongue inside, feeling her clench.

“...please what?” She murmurs, shivering.

“Mm… please, release me.” He responds, licking again, longer, frenzied. Please, his tongue says as it sinks into her, please, I need you to be merciful.

She doesn’t answer, just bends down again and twirls her silken tongue around the glistening head of his cock, tickling the frenulum with the tip. It’s pulled tight there and it aches pleasantly, so sensitive that he grunts for the caresses, wanting more, needing that dam shattered.

He tilts his chin, flicks his tongue against her clit, trying to do better, to find the spot that pleases her the most, and she keens, grateful. There, she asks without words, and he gives, selfless, overjoyed to hear her so blissful. He focuses on her, pushing his own want aside for the moment, guiding her restless movements with his grasp shifting to her hips as he toys with her clit. Her voice rises in pitch and volume, hitching, warping into swift gasps, her hips jolting and jerking, thighs clenching on either side of his face, and he knows, he can feel it happen and he loves it.

She comes, shuddering, drawn-out moans echoing in the room and he sucks her clean, licks up the liquids that seep from her folds, massages her through the throes to let her slowly descend from the beautiful high.

“...oh, Mathias…” She breathes finally, still shaky, still panting. “You’re so good at this…” She praises, and abruptly she tugs the knot on the purple ribbon loose.

He gasps as the restraints loosen and he feels the pleasure slowly creep forth, filling him up, near brimming, painfully close to cresting and yet so damn far away.

“Elya…” He’s more urgent than he wants to be while she unravels the bindings, pulling the ribbon away completely. He’s sure there are marks on the shaft and he shivers to imagine them. “Elya, please…”

He reaches down to caress her shoulder, asking, wishing, while she seems to deliberate, or maybe delight in the state she’s left him in. _Please, oh please be kind enough to finish me off_ , he begs, thoughtless.

“...and you sound so sweet when you beg,” she purrs, pleased.

There’s a small spike of indignant shame that rears its head, just enough to make the wonderful mercy afterwards more breathtaking.

She bends to take him in her mouth, as much of his length as she can, sucking, slurping, making it no secret she enjoys doing it. He’s robbed of the sight, so he closes his eyes and anchors himself in the sensations instead, wet, hot, tight, softly caressing when her tongue moves against the head. It’s good, simple, but _so good_.

He hangs onto her, groping her waist for purchase as he stiffens, tilting his head back slightly, breathing fast. His brows twitch and furrow, his teeth grit as he pushes himself too, loves it, feels himself coming near bursting, and he grunts, desperate, that long-awaited relief finally, finally consuming him.

He comes hard, thick seed spilling inside her mouth in hot spurts, coating her tongue and he shivers to feel her swallow, throbbing, jolting one last time before shuddering, he rests back and at long last, relaxes.

“...oh, fuck,” he sighs, succint.

She laughs, mouth still full, nearly choking. She pulls off with a wet slurp, making him jerk again - sensitive - then she rolls off, lying on her side beside him.

“Have to agree, good sir.” He can hear her smile.

He squints one green eye open and smiles back. It’s easy, and true.

After a moment of comfortable silence, she says, “I have the room reserved for the night.”

“That’s considerate.” He’s grateful. He glances down, groans a bit for how some excess cum has smeared on his lower stomach. Always a bit of a mess afterwards. He looks around in the room while Elya gets up, walks to the nightstand naked - what a fine ass, he muses - and returns with a towel.

“Thanks.” He wipes himself off and she takes the towel and does the same on herself. The towel lands discarded on the armchair from across the bed. She’s still smiling.

Damn, it’s going to hurt, walking away from this.

“You’ll have an early morning tomorrow, I expect,” she says. There’s no excuse in her tone, only warmth and understanding. “Sneaking out before I wake. Why not turn in for now? You deserve it.”

Mathias feels himself nearly melt, and he stifles a sigh with pure willpower. He scoots up, under the covers, lifts them to wait for her.

She puts out the candle then slips in beside him in the complete darkness. Outside, he can hear the capital still bustling with nightlife. She rests her head carefully on his scarred shoulder, one hand on his chest, fingertips drowsily caressing. He feels himself twist and cry inside, as though trapped on a rack with a particularly vindictive torturer. They don’t talk. He tucks them both in and holds her, awake while she begins to quietly snore.

He’s not bitter as he waits silently for the first specks of dawnlight to grace the windows, the time when he must disappear. He thinks of her kisses, her touches, her eyes sun-bright and her beautiful orgasm. He relives it, engraves it all in his mind like the treasure it is, and he is not bitter.

He won’t let anything taint the memories.


End file.
